


Telling Time

by Luthien



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, M/M, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets from Hathaway's past and present combine to create complications in an important case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Venturous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/gifts).



It's 11:31 am. The fact that Hathaway knows this without having to specially check the clock in order to find out says a lot about the sort of day it's been so far. Usually, he has neither the time nor the inclination to clock-watch.

On the other side of the office, Lewis is sitting at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up and a ballpoint pen clamped between his teeth. His face is a picture of concentration as his attention shifts between the computer monitor, the single piece of paper lying on the desk, and the keyboard sitting in front of him, over which Lewis's fingers are flying. Well, "flying" is somewhat of a relative term here, but still there's no doubt that he's typing faster than usual.

Lewis pauses in his typing, snatches the pen out of his mouth, and scribbles something on the paper. He considers what he's written, hand coming up to rest on his chin for a moment, and the end of the pen slides slickly back between his lips. It's not a particularly calculated action; he's probably not even aware that he's done it.

Hathaway looks away, and then, a moment or two later as the sound of typing recommences, back at the clock.

It's 11:32.

"How time flies _when I do count the clock that tells the time / And see the brave day sunk in hideous night_." Hathaway murmurs the words _sotto voce_ as he gazes at the long table of meaningless figures on his own screen. It's been an odd sort of day. For one thing, the most urgent item that's crossed Hathaway's desk is a request—well, instruction, really—from Superintendent Innocent to make sure to sit in on the mini-seminar on workplace sexual harassment being run by the training team this afternoon. They probably can't get out of it. They're more or less between investigations at the moment, or at least as near to that as they ever can be. All of their recent cases are in limbo, or possibly purgatory, right now. They’re all waiting for something, whether it's waiting to go to trial or waiting for a missing person to turn up—one way or another—or just waiting for lab results to come back. Hathaway has been working on the monthly statistics in lieu of anything else to do apart from watching the clock or… Apart from _watching_. Lewis claims to be working on the monthly report, into which Hathaway's statistics are supposed to be incorporated, but Lewis hasn't asked for them yet.

"Done." Lewis drops the pen on the desk and leans back in his chair. "Thank God that's over with." He stretches out one arm and starts rolling down his shirt sleeve. It's a muscular arm, strong and well-defined, surprisingly so—or perhaps not so surprisingly to anyone who's ever seen Lewis chase and catch a suspect and pin him to the ground.

Lewis stands up. "Fancy an early lunch, Sergeant? And maybe a pint to wash it down?" he asks as he rolls down his other sleeve.

"Right with you, sir," Hathaway says, already on his feet and reaching for his jacket.

"I'll send you the monthly report when we get back. You can add the figures and pretty it up a bit."

"Of course, sir," Hathaway says without any inflection whatsoever.

They very nearly make it out of the office. Unfortunately, Chief Superintendent Innocent walks in through the door before Hathaway and Lewis manage to exit out of it. It soon becomes clear that she's following up her e-mail with a personal visit, to make sure that Hathaway and Lewis will both be attending the seminar.

"Do you have anything more pressing to take care of this afternoon?" she asks in response to their initial protests.

"Well, there's the monthly report," Lewis begins.

"That's what I thought. Make sure you're there."

"Really, ma'am?" Lewis tries again. "You can't think that I—well, either of us is the type—that we'd ever behave…"

"Reprehensibly towards our subordinates," Hathaway puts in when Lewis seems in danger of floundering.

"No, I wouldn't have thought that you would, Lewis, or that Hathaway would be particularly your type in any case." She allows herself a tiny smile in the face of Lewis's splutters before continuing: "But you still need to attend, if for no other reason than that it will equip you to more easily identify improper behaviour in others, should you witness it in future. See you both at two o'clock."

They watch her disappear down the corridor again.

"If for no other reason than that someone's in need of justifying the training budget by submitting some inflated staff training statistics in the near future," Lewis says darkly once Innocent is out of sight. Hathaway doesn't reply, but Lewis doesn't seem to be expecting a response. "That thing'll have to ring between now and two o'clock, don't you think?" he asks, nodding at the phone on his desk.

"It would be statistically unlikely for us not to receive any phone calls at all in that time," Hathaway agrees.

"All the more reason for us to grab some lunch while we can. Onward, James," Lewis says, pointing down the corridor to the main doors.

But the phone doesn't ring all through their (relatively speaking, for a working day) long and leisurely lunch at the pub. Neither of their phones does. And when they get back, the office phones join their mobiles in remaining obstinately silent. There aren't even any personal calls, though it's true that neither of them ever gets many of those, if you don't count Lewis's daughter.

At five to two, Innocent strolls past their office on her way to the conference room. She doesn't stop, or even look in as she passes, but then, she knows she doesn't have to. Hathaway's eyes meet Lewis's and they share a look of resignation: nothing's going to save them from their fate.

The seminar consists of a five minute spiel from the leader of the training team, followed by a fifteen minute DVD, and then a short Q & A session to finish up. The video is as direly acted and scripted as such productions usually are, all earnest heavy-handedness. The Q & A session is even direr, if anything, mainly because no one except the trainer is interested in saying anything. Do they really imagine that any police detective who's been in the job more than five minutes hasn't seen the effects of this sort of behaviour at its most extreme, and worse? Apparently so.

They make their escape just before half past two.

"So, do you feel that you're now adequately informed on the subject of sexual harassment in the workplace, Sergeant?" Lewis asks as they gain the office door.

"Oh yes, sir. I'd describe it as adequate in the extreme," Hathaway replies.

 _Sexual harassment_. Lewis says the words slowly and carefully, using the American pronunciation like the narrator in the DVD, feeling his way around the vowels and consonants as though they're in a foreign language. And, in many ways, they are. Lewis understands human failings and fallibilities better than anyone else Hathaway's known. In the course of his long career he's become all too well acquainted with the dark side of the human soul, but still there's a part of him that keeps itself separate from all that, a curious almost-innocence that remains untouched. A man like Lewis could never have more than second-hand acquaintance with something like sexual harassment. It's just who he is.

"Why are you smiling?" Lewis wants to know.

"Was I smiling?" Hathaway asks in reply, assuming a suitably bland expression.

"Oh, get away with you," Lewis says in exasperation.

The phone on Lewis's desk rings before Hathaway can say another word.

"Perfect bloody timing," Lewis says as he picks up the phone. "Lewis." He listens for a moment and then says, "Yes." Another short pause and then, "I see." The expression on Lewis's face grows graver with every word. Finally he says, "Where, exactly?" and writes down the details on the message pad that he keeps by the phone.

"What?" Hathaway asks as soon as Lewis puts down the handset. "Or should that be 'who'?"

"Jane Wilson," Lewis says grimly. "They think they've found her. Or at least what's left of her. Get your jacket," he adds as he reaches for his own.

"Where are we going?"

"The river."

~*~

Hathaway stares down dispassionately at the bloated thing that was once a human being. He's become too used to sights like this. There's a small, detached voice at the back of his mind that's horrified by both the sight before him and the fact that it no longer has the power to move him on any level save the professional. But that voice is easy to ignore.

"Do we know how long she's been in the water?" Lewis asks Doctor Hobson, who is crouched over the body.

Hobson looks up. "Several days at least. Beyond that, and the fact that she is, indeed, a she, I can't tell you a great deal until I take her back for a proper examination."

Lewis nods.

As soon as they had received the call, they had dispatched uniformed officers to search along the riverbank for any additional evidence: remnants of clothes, perhaps, or other items possibly belonging to the deceased that might help with identification. Or with determining the cause of death. Somehow, Hathaway doesn't think this one is a victim of accidental drowning. Especially not if she turns out to be Jane Wilson.

"Sir!" one of the officers shouts out now, and both Hathaway and Lewis look around sharply.

"I'll go," Hathaway tells Lewis.

"We both will," Lewis replies.

They jog down to the riverbank, where the constable stands waiting.

"What is it, Dom?" Hathaway asks.

Constable Dominic Pryor nods towards a dark shape tangled in the water weed growing in the shallows. "It looks like another body, sir."

"Looks like, or is?"

"Well, it's got hands, at least."

"Let's get it out of the water," Lewis says, a grim look on his face. "Hoy, you, Parsons! Over here!" he yells to another constable a little further along the bank.

Parsons comes over and between them the two constables drag the body out onto the riverbank. It's lying face down, but even so it's immediately obvious that the body is that of a man. He's tall, over six foot in Hathaway's estimation, and he's wearing a suit, well-cut in fabric of some dark colour, probably grey. It's hard to tell for sure when it's saturated like this. The hands, the only skin visible for the moment, don't appear overly affected by the water. He hasn't been in the river long, or at least not as long as the female body.

Parsons gives the body a half-hearted prod with his foot.

"Oh, come on, Constable. That's not going to do the job," Lewis says, and demonstrates by giving it a good hard shove. The body rolls over, revealing the face. It's immediately recognisable.

James feels sick to his stomach and he can actually feel the blood draining out of his cheeks. Well, not _actually_. The mind reacts oddly to shock, he knows that. But there's still no denying that his face feels suddenly chilled. No, that body definitely hasn't been in the water long. It can't have been, seeing as only yesterday it wasn't a body at all. Yesterday it was a living, breathing man. Yesterday that body was Matthew Enright, who had sat in the pub across from James and looked at him with weary eyes, such a far cry from the happy, smiling young man that James remembered, and will always remember—so unlike James himself, at any age. But now Matthew's not even that shadow of his former self. Now he's just a body. A corpse. _Corpus delecti_. Literally, the body of evidence. But evidence of what, exactly? Murder? Suicide? Accident? It's impossible to think of any of those possibilities in relation to Matthew.

It's like Will all over again, only maybe even worse. Is every man he's ever been close to going to end up as just another case?

James turns and bolts. He doesn't run far. Just far enough that he can pretend that Matthew isn't lying there, the star player in the latest Murder of the Week. He manages to stop himself from heaving up the contents of his stomach onto the grass. Just.

"Hathaway?" Lewis calls out after him.

Hathaway doesn't reply. He hears the murmuring of voices over by the riverbank. Lewis is probably telling the two constables to see to—Hathaway sighs—the body.

He's staring at the river but not really seeing it when he hears Lewis approach, shoes swishing through the long grass. Lewis comes to a stop beside him. He doesn't say anything, but just joins Hathaway in looking out over the water.

"So," Lewis says after a while. "You knew him." It's a statement.

"Yes."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Matthew, _was_ Matthew. Matthew Enright." Hathaway clenches his teeth. "He was a stockbroker. He worked for a City firm."

"Had you seen him recently?" Lewis asks.

"Yesterday."

Lewis turns to look at him sharply. It's not the answer he was expecting. "Yesterday," he repeats. "You didn't… How did you know him, then?"

"We met not long after I left the seminary. We were... I knew him quite well. For a while."

Lewis takes in this piece of information in silence.

Hathaway watches the river. There's a large twig drifting along at a majestic pace, glistening in the sunshine amidst the sparkling water, while all the time the current drags it inexorably downstream.

At last Lewis says, "His shirt is torn on the left side. Looks like a knife wound, though obviously we'll need to wait for Doctor Hobson's verdict on the cause of death."

Hathaway nods, not trusting himself to speak. It's looking a lot like murder. He can't imagine Matthew taking his own life, either by accident or design. But murder? Who would want to kill him? That's the pertinent question, of course.

"You know we're going to have to leave now, and hand this case over to someone else," Lewis says.

"Yes."

"And you know they're going to want to interview you, and ask about your movements yesterday."

"Of course." Hathaway's eyes flicker sideways, and meet Lewis's for an instant.

"Right then," Lewis says, straightening up. "We'd best be on our way. I'll just have a quiet word with Laura first."

Lewis does just that. For once, Hathaway doesn't accompany him. Instead, he stands near the car, smoking, and waiting for Lewis to be done. He wants not to be forced to explain himself—he wants that fiercely—but he knows the rest of his day is going to be made up of almost nothing but that. He doesn't want the ready, if composed, look of sympathy that Doctor Hobson shoots him a moment or two after Lewis starts speaking to her, either. Hathaway turns away quickly to take another drag on his cigarette, but not quickly enough that he fails to notice Lewis's hand coming up to rest on Hobson's shoulder, cautioning her. She needs cautioning, but not on that score.

Hathaway watches as Lewis leaves Doctor Hobson's side. He grinds the cigarette butt under his heel, grimaces, bends to retrieve it and slips it into his pocket ashtray.

"Ready to go?" Lewis asks.

Hathaway's not sure what to say in response to that, but before he can think of an answer Lewis replies to his own question: "Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say."

"No, I… No," Hathaway says. "You're not going to call Innocent?" he asks, as Lewis unlocks the car and gets into the driver's seat.

"I think this is a conversation I'd prefer to have in person," Lewis says. "Get in."

Hathaway does so.

The journey back to the station is conducted in near silence. Trees and fields and little villages pass by the window, interspersed with glimpses of the river, until suddenly they're in the midst of houses and shops crowded together, and looming city spires.

They stop at a traffic light when they've all but reached their destination, and Hathaway says, tight-lipped, "I didn't do it."

"I know," Lewis says gravely. He looks across at Hathaway; Hathaway looks back. For a split second, Hathaway is sure that Lewis is going to reach out to him, to clasp his knee in reassurance. He dreads it, wants it, but then the lights change and the car behind them beeps its horn impatiently, and Lewis turns his attention back to the road. "Now we just have to prove that," Lewis says as the car moves forward again. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"Not right now. Later." This isn't the right time or place for this conversation, though Hathaway knows Lewis probably has a different view on that.

"If you're sure," Lewis says, and then there's silence again.

Lewis goes straight in to see Innocent the instant they get back. Hathaway goes too.

Chief Superintendent Innocent is sitting at her desk, waiting for them after a hasty notification from her PA in the outer office. She looks at them expectantly, eyebrows raised. "What?" she says.

"We've run into a slight problem with the body in the river, ma'am," Lewis says.

"What sort of problem?" she asks.

"Well, there are two problems, actually. The first is that it turns out there isn't one body, there are two. And the second-"

"The second problem is that I may well have been the last person to see the second victim alive," Hathaway puts in, unable to remain silent any longer.

Innocent shuts her eyes for a long moment, and when she opens them again she looks weary, and deadly serious. "I think the two of you had better take a seat."

~*~

On their way back out of Innocent's office, they pass Detective Inspector McNaughten, who's waiting to go in. McNaughten exchanges a brief hello with Lewis, and an even briefer nod of the head with Hathaway.

"Col McNaughten's not a bad choice," Lewis says as they make their way down the corridor. "He knows what he's doing."

"I'm sure he does," Hathaway replies. McNaughten is beefy and red-faced, a grizzled older man with a reputation for getting the job done, whatever it takes. He is, in fact, younger than Lewis, though no one would ever pick that without being told.

Hathaway gets back to his desk, and only then realises that he's back to where he was before they got the call about the body in the river. Not only has the investigation into Matthew's death been assigned to McNaughten, but the investigation into the other dead body in the river as well. The circumstances of the two deaths are almost certainly not connected, given the respective lengths of time the bodies have been in the river, but, since they both ended up in the same place at the same time, Innocent doesn't want to leave the Force open to the slightest accusation of mismanagement of an investigation—or worse.

The draft monthly report is still sitting in his inbox. It's something to do while he waits, at least. It shouldn't be long before McNaughten calls him in. It's the first thing Lewis would do, if he were in charge of this case—assuming, of course, that it involved some officer less well-known to him than Hathaway.

It's 4:04 pm when Hathaway opens the draft monthly report. Probably Innocent will want to talk to McNaughten for a few minutes, and then he'll want to call Doctor Hobson, perhaps. After that, the obvious next step is to talk to Hathaway. He should be in there by 4:30, surely.

The hands of the clock move slowly around the dial: 4:07, 4:08, 4:12… 4:30 comes and goes. The monthly report has been edited to within an inch of its life by the time Hathaway looks up at 4:46 and finds Lewis studying him from across the room.

"Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me?" Lewis asks.

"Not here."

Lewis nods. He doesn't look terribly happy about it, but then Hathaway's face probably doesn't look terribly happy, either. "When you're in there, remember to stick to the question. Don't volunteer any information. Just answer what they ask, and no more."

"I know how to handle myself in an interview situation, sir," Hathaway points out.

"I know you do. Just... be careful, lad, won't you?"

"As always, sir."

Lewis looks vaguely irritated then. "That answer's not nearly as reassuring as it should be. Don't forget that I _know_ you, Hathaway."

"Yes, sir." The corner of Hathaway's mouth turns up in the slightest hint of a smile. It fades as his eyes light on the clock: It's 4:47 now. What is McNaughten doing? Has he perhaps driven out to the riverbank where they found the bodies to inspect it for himself? Or is this all just some sort of tactic to put Hathaway off-balance before the interview even starts?

On the other side of the office, Lewis shifts in his chair and stretches.

"Maybe you should consider going home, sir," Hathaway suggests. "I may be here for some time."

Lewis shakes his head. "No, I think I'll stay. I'm swamped with paperwork at the moment and I really need to get through it before tomorrow."

It's such a bare-faced lie that Hathaway almost smiles again. And then he sets about re-writing the monthly report. And watching the clock.

It's nearer 5:30 than 5:00—5:22 pm to be exact—when the freckled, somewhat toad-like face of McNaughten's sergeant finally pokes around the door. "We're ready for you now, Sergeant, if you wouldn't mind coming with me."

Hathaway notes the formal mode of address. One part of him even approves of it, considering the circumstances. He gets up but before he can make another move Lewis is there. There's the firm, dependable clasp of Lewis's hand on his shoulder and the familiar, reassuring sound of Lewis's voice in his ear: "You'll be fine. I'll be waiting."

Hathaway doesn't say anything, but he's fairly sure that all the reply Lewis needs is right there on his face.

He follows the sergeant—Nathan Rhys—down to the main interview room. He wonders if Lewis will be watching from the other side of the window. Probably not for long if Innocent is there too.

McNaughten is waiting at the table. He waves Hathaway into the seat opposite him. Hathaway's never sat on this side of the table before. He hadn't expected it to feel quite so different. Rhys takes the seat at the end of the table, and gets out his notebook and a pen. They're not going to go so far as to record the interview, then, but the set-up is more formal than it strictly needs to be for a preliminary interview. Innocent's hand at work again, Hathaway guesses, covering every angle so that there can be no accusations of favouritism in the event of news of his involvement in the case hitting the media.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant. This shouldn't take too long. We just need to ask you a few questions."

"I understand the procedure, Inspector," Hathaway says tightly. It's not a good start. He knows that. He forces his breathing to slow. In and out. _Relax_.

"Of course you do, Sergeant. Of course you do. Could you tell me how you came to know the deceased, Matthew Enright?" McNaughten's tone turns abruptly harder as he asks the question.

"We met about ten years ago, not long before I joined the police force. Matthew had just finished his PhD and, like me, was at a point in his life when he was considering what to do next. We saw quite a lot of each other for a time."

At the end of the table, Nathan Rhys starts scribbling diligently in his notebook.

"But that didn't last?"

"Matthew got a job with a merchant bank in the City: his PhD was in applied mathematics and people with his level of expertise with numbers are always in demand for that sort of work. So he left Oxford. We fell out of regular contact after that."

"But you still maintained… irregular contact?" The way McNaughten draws out the sentence makes it sound as if there's something wrong with that, something potentially suspicious.

"From time to time, yes," Hathaway says evenly.

"When was the last time you saw Matthew Enright, Sergeant? Before yesterday," McNaughten clarifies before Hathaway can make the obvious answer.

Hathaway considers the question for a moment. "More than a year. Maybe closer to two."

"Were you in contact at all during that time?"

"No."

"So what was the reason for your meeting yesterday, after such a long period without any contact at all?" There's that insinuating tone again.

"Matthew phoned me. He told me he was coming up to Oxford this weekend, and he asked if we could meet up for a drink. I agreed."

"Did he mention why he was coming to Oxford, apart from seeing you?"

"No."

"You didn't wonder?" McNaughten presses, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"I don't like to speculate."

"But surely, as a police detective, your job is all about speculation, _Sergeant,_ " McNaughten says silkily.

"I don't like to speculate about my _friends. Sir_." _Relax_ , Hathaway reminds himself. _Don't let him get to you. That's what he wants._

"So as far as you are aware, Mr Enright drove up to Oxford solely to see you?"

"No." Hathaway keeps his expression carefully bland, but he notices the tiny flash of annoyance in McNaughten's eyes. "In the course of the discussion, he mentioned that he'd driven up that morning, but he didn't say what he'd been doing before we met at the White Horse in the later afternoon."

"What time was that, exactly?" McNaughten leans forward a little more.

"I arrived a little after a quarter past five. Matthew was already there. We'd arranged to meet at five, and I was late."

McNaughten nods, and gestures to Rhys to be sure to take that down. "Given your long acquaintance with him, what, in your estimation, was Mr Enright's state of mind when you saw him yesterday?" he asks.

"He was somewhat stressed. There was something going on at work, but he didn't want to go into any details."

"Something going on?"

"That's all he said—and yes, those were his exact words," Hathaway says.

"What else did you talk about?"

"Old times, mostly. Places we used to go together. Mutual friends. Nothing of any great importance."

McNaughten looks at him consideringly. "What time did you leave the White Horse, Sergeant?"

"Around half past six."

"Do you know what time Mr Enright left?"

"We left at the same time. I saw him get into his car and drive away."

"And he didn't tell you what his plans were for the rest of the evening?"

"No, he just said that he had to leave by 6:30."

"How much did you have to drink?" McNaughten's leaning back in his chair now, sounding not friendly, exactly, but casual.

"I had a pint." Hathaway maintains both his posture and his demeanour.

"Only a single pint in nearly an hour and a half?" McNaughten doesn't sound casual any more.

"After that I drank orange juice. I was driving."

"And Mr Enright, what did he drink?"

"He was drinking beer, but only half-pints. He would have had three in the time I was there."

"But he could have drunk more than that before you arrived?"

"He could have. I don't know," Hathaway says steadily.

McNaughten nods. "Can anyone corroborate your story, Sergeant? In particular, the time at which you left the White Horse?"

"I didn't recognise anyone else in there last night. The Sunday evening barman isn't one who normally works during the week, when I'm usually there. Someone might have seen us leave and remembered us, I suppose."

"And can anyone vouch for your whereabouts after 6:30 last night until this morning?"

"Yes," Hathaway says.

McNaughten and Rhys exchange a look. They weren't expecting that, clearly.

"And that person would be?" McNaughten asks.

"My boss, Detective Inspector Robert Lewis."

McNaughten and Rhys exchange another look.

"Inspector Lewis was staying with me over the weekend," Hathaway continues. "He spent the weekend painting the interior of his flat and he needed somewhere to escape the fumes overnight."

"So Inspector Lewis was at your home from what time?"

"He was already at my flat when I got back at around 6:45, and then we both remained there until we left for work this morning."

And with that the interview is all but over. McNaughten stares at him long and hard, and thanks him for his time. And then, abruptly, Hathaway is free to go.

Lewis is waiting outside the door when they emerge from the interview room. So is Innocent.

"Ah, Robbie," says McNaughten as soon as he sees Lewis. "I'm glad to see you're still here. Could we have a quick word?"

~*~

The words that are exchanged between Lewis and McNaughten are neither quick nor quiet. They also don't take place in the formal setting of the interview room. Innocent ushers them both back to her office, and, from the sound of it, does her best to referee. Hathaway isn't invited in, of course, but no one told him he couldn't wait outside. And so he sits and waits, and Nathan Rhys sits and waits beside him. They don't talk. Both being detective sergeants, their paths have crossed numerous times before, but they've never been particular friends, and now there's an added yawning chasm between them.

Hathaway can't quite make out what's being said, but he can follow the rise and fall of the conversation, _crescendo_ and _decrescendo_ , and dissonant crashes like something by Stravinsky, or maybe Bartok. Eventually things quiet, and the burble of conversation coming from the other side of the door starts to sound more like a civilised, if animated, discussion.

At last the door swings open, and Lewis and McNaughten emerge, followed by Innocent.

"A word, Sergeant!" McNaughten says, jabbing a thick finger first at Rhys and then in the direction of the corridor.

Rhys jumps up to follow McNaughten out of the door, still without saying a word.

"If there's nothing else, Lewis?" Innocent says.

"Nothing for the moment, ma'am."

Innocent turns to Hathaway. She seems about to say something, then stops. After a short silence, she says, "I think you'd better get on home now, Hathaway."

"Yes, ma'am," Hathaway says.

"Try to get some sleep tonight," she advises, and her tone is not unkind.

"Yes, ma'am, I'll do that."

"Until tomorrow, then. Good night," she says.

Lewis and Hathaway say their good-nights as Innocent goes back into her office and shuts the door behind her.

And then it's just the two of them.

"Is there anything you feel you should tell me, sir?" Hathaway asks.

"Later," Lewis says. "Let's get out of here."

Hathaway doesn't offer any objections.

It's still light out when they walk out into the car park, but a slight evening chill is setting in. At this time last night, James was still in the pub, having one last drink with Matthew before they went their separate ways—their very last drink together, as it turned out, though neither of them had an inkling of that at the time. Or had they? Matthew had been worried about something, though he wouldn't say what. Had he been concerned for his safety? James should have pressed him about that. He should have asked who else Matthew had seen that day in Oxford. Of course, Matthew hadn't wanted to say. He'd always been secretive. Not deceptive—he never lied that James is aware of—but he liked to compartmentalise his life, keeping each part separate and discrete. To begin with, when they'd first known each other, Matthew's approach to life had seemed to James to be tidy, organised, and eminently sensible. But then, James had been young and impressionable, and all too appreciative of a well developed sense of order. In the end, all it added up to was too many secrets, pointless secrets, and now it's too late: too late to ask the crucial questions and… too late.

Of course, James has a few secrets of his own.

He jumps as he feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder.

"I said, come back," Lewis says, moving around to stand in front of him.

Hathaway shakes his head, as though that will clear it. "I'm sorry, I was-"

"Miles away. Yes, I noticed."

Lewis's forehead is furrowed in concern. Hathaway realises that he's barely looked at Lewis since the moment Nathan Rhys appeared in their office. He looks at him now, really looks at him. Lewis looks much like Lewis always looks. Tall, or tall-ish, when standing next to almost anyone but Hathaway, shoulders ever so slightly stooped, betraying that he's not as young as he used to be, as he himself might put it. Blue-grey eyes, apparently guileless and yet they notice everything and understand most of it—too much, sometimes, for James's comfort. More lines on his face than he used to have, seen this close up, but Lewis remains himself in look and word and action. The very definition of dependable. And more than that.

"Fish and chips?" Hathaway asks. He knows it's one of Lewis's favourites, though he denies himself the indulgence most of the time. Hathaway can understand that. He's all too familiar with denial in all its forms.

Lewis looks puzzled at the _non sequitur_. "What?"

"Fish and chips. You like them. Shall we get some on the way home?" Sometimes in a case of denial, the intervention of a third party is required.

Lewis eyes Hathaway uncertainly. "Fish and chips. After… everything, you want fish and chips?"

"No, I think I'll have scampi. But _you'll_ have fish and chips."

They stop at a chippy—not the sort of business with which Oxford is exactly overrun, despite the hordes of students everywhere—hiding down a tiny alley off The High. There, Hathaway buys scampi while Lewis gets battered cod and thick, salty chips, and a tiny plastic container of mushy peas.

They don't say much on the drive back to the flat. The time for talk is yet to come. Hathaway looks out the window, seeing the familiar landmarks of Oxford pass by without really taking them in. Then they pass the White Horse and he turns his attention quickly away from the window—just in time to catch Lewis casting a covetous glance at the contents of the plastic bag sitting on Hathaway's lap. Hathaway purses his lips, rips open one end of the paper-wrapped package of chips, and moves it into Lewis's field of vision. Lewis takes a chip without a word. Hathaway puts the chips back in the plastic bag and looks back out the window.

They continue on in silence until they reach Hathaway's flat.

They still don't talk, even when at last the door is closed behind them. Hathaway deposits the plastic bag on the coffee table, while Lewis wordlessly opens two beers, and hands one to Hathaway. Hathaway takes a good long swig. It's only when they're finally seated companionably side by side on the sofa that at last Hathaway breaks the silence.

"So what did you tell them?" Hathaway asks.

"About what?" Lewis replies, nursing his beer against his chest between sips.

"About where you were last night."

"I told them the truth, of course. That I'd been painting at the flat all day, and then in the evening I was here. The _whole_ evening."

Hathaway nods. "This probably isn't the end of it. Not if they can't establish the time of death precisely enough. They'll be back for another round of questioning."

"I know," says Lewis. "And you know that if they ask me anything more specific, I'll answer honestly."

"I do," Hathaway says. And he does. Lewis is eminently honest and incorruptible, steadfast and true. _An ever-fixed mark / That looks on tempests and is never shaken._

He sets down the beer bottle on the coffee table, and swings his legs up onto the sofa. It takes more than a bit of wriggling to re-position himself properly, but at last he ends up exactly where he wants to be.

He looks up into Robbie's face. This thing going on between them is still new enough that surprise flashes briefly in Robbie's eyes as James's hands come up to cup his face, to draw him down until their lips find each other. They do so unerringly, as always.

It's a slow, gentle kiss, or it's meant to be. Want flares unbidden deep inside, and James pushes closer, hands slipping down to stroke along Robbie's neck.

Robbie breaks the kiss, draws back, though not far. "Hey, just a moment," he says. "At least let me get my beer out of harm's way before you…" He's looking at James as he speaks, just as he has a hundred times, a thousand, perhaps. But this time it's different. This time, whatever it is he's seeing makes the words dry up before he gets to the end, makes him swallow hastily, and look away.

"Have my evil way with you?" James finishes for him. It's a terrible line, but James can't quite resist using it. Not when it elicits the expected response.

Robbie flushes pink, all along his neck and cheeks, right up to the tips of his ears. "Maybe," he mutters, and moves his free hand up to stroke along James's face, mapping the shape with uncertain fingertips, pausing to trace the line of stubble along the jaw line, then up along his cheek and temple, until his fingers slide into James's hair. _Not_ the expected response. And the expression on his face as he does so... It's James's turn to blush.

"Tell me about this Matthew Enright first," Robbie says. It's not quite a question, but still a request rather than a demand.

James looks away from Robbie's gaze, has to—Robbie's fingers are still stroking his hair and that's almost enough to derail his train of thought in itself—and tries to think of the best place to start. He lets out a long breath. The beginning is the obvious place to start, and for that reason James shies away from the very idea of it. He does feel obliged to provide at least some context, though, even if it's very far from a blow by blow description.

"I told you I met Matthew just after I left the seminary. We were both at a loose end at the time, finding that we'd both outgrown the lives we'd had, and wondering where to go next. Matthew was… " James closes his eyes. In his mind's eye he can still see Matthew as he was then, even after all these years. "Matthew was the first man I kissed, and the first man I spent the night with. I thought I loved him. Maybe I did."

Robbie's fingers still in James's hair. He doesn't respond immediately, and when he does speak, he doesn't ask the obvious question about the part of the story that James has so conspicuously left hanging. "You didn't tell me where you were going last night, or why." It's not even a question.

"No, I… It was easier not to mention him at all than to try to explain… something that ceased to exist a long time ago."

Robbie's hand cups James's cheek, exerting a gentle pressure, drawing him slowly but inexorably back to face Robbie again.

"I know," Robbie says.

James has to kiss him again. He has no choice. There's too much knowledge—of both of them, of life—in Robbie's eyes for him to bear to keep looking at all that for long. He clutches at Robbie's shoulders even as Robbie bends his head to meet him. This kiss isn't gentle. It's demanding and a little bit desperate, all wet lips and thrusting tongue. Robbie's breath catches in his throat, and then he's kissing James back properly, fingers splaying along James's jaw and pressing into the skin, not letting up and not letting up and not letting up until James is all aching awareness. He's also achingly aware of how entirely inconvenient his current position really is, with his head at one end of the sofa, his legs folded uncomfortably at the other, and the rest of him stretched out across Robbie's lap but with far too much of Robbie completely out of his reach.

Robbie feels the change in him, he must do, because he breaks the kiss, and draws back.

"Shall we take this elsewhere?" James asks, and presses a kiss against the side of Robbie's neck.

Robbie makes a soft sound deep in his throat, and, for a moment, it's clear that he's riven with indecision. James can see that he wants to, almost wants to, say yes. But the part of him that spent one lifetime in the carefully ordered existence of husband and father, and then another lifetime after that alone with no one to care or care for, wins out.

"You should eat that before it gets cold," Robbie says, nodding towards the plastic bag on the table in front of them.

He shifts beneath James, and James takes the hint. He hauls himself up into a sitting position and leans forward to empty the bag and divide up the contents. They eat their supper directly from the paper parcels with the aid of plastic sporks. The scampi is tough, tougher than James likes, certainly, and barely warm enough to stomach. Robbie seems to be enjoying his fish and chips more. The chips in particular. And the mushy peas. The peas are probably even less palatable than the scampi by now, but Robbie doesn't seem to mind. He gets through the peas in short order. James wonders idly where Robbie acquired his abiding love for peas and lentils and, probably, all other pulses. He doesn't bother to ask, though. He prefers that it remains one of the eternal mysteries.

James abandons the remainder of the scampi and takes a sip of his beer. "I don't think Inspector McNaughten likes me very much."

"I don't think he likes anyone much." Robbie laughs humourlessly. "He certainly doesn't like me after today."

"Thanks for that," James says and takes another sip of beer to stop himself from saying anything more. He can't ask exactly what was said behind the closed door of Innocent's office, for many reasons. His own ethics demand it quite as much as the rules he's required to obey. Not to mention the fact that he won't consider putting Robbie in such an impossible situation.

"My reaction would have been the same if he'd gone after anyone else that hard with only those sorts of facts to go on. At least, I hope my reaction would have been the same," Robbie says. He's looking and sounding more like Lewis now.

"Of course you would have reacted in the same way," James says. "The whole investigation would be very different if you were running it."

"If I were running it, I wouldn't be here right now, that's certain," Robbie says. "I'd be... Well." He sets down his beer and looks thoughtful.

"What?" James says. He knows that look.

"Fancy a pint, Sergeant?" asks Inspector Lewis.

~*~

Monday is one of the quieter nights of the week in the White Horse. Lewis and Hathaway claim a table back from the window, and then Hathaway wanders over to the bar to get the first round. The barmaid is new, and slightly nervous. She pours Hathaway's orange juice without any trouble, but Lewis's glass of Guinness has far too much head on it.

"That's going to be too bitter to drink if you leave it like that. Try pouring a bit out and letting it settle before you finish it off," Hathaway advises.

The girl looks uncertain, but does as he suggests. James watches the beer settle in the glass, bit by bit. It's mesmerizing, watching it slowly clear like this. After a minute, when the beer still hasn't cleared completely, the barmaid tops it up, and Hathaway carries the drinks back to the table.

Lewis takes one sip of the Guinness and makes a face. "Good lord. What happened to that between the tap and the glass?"

"New barmaid," Hathaway explains, enjoying his orange juice for once.

"Ah," Lewis says despondently.

"If I take it back, she's not going to pour it any better the second time," Hathaway points out.

"True." Lewis pushes the glass towards the centre of the table, as though he doesn't want to acknowledge ownership of it. "So, show me which table the two of you were sitting at last night," he says quietly.

"The table over there, directly beneath the window," Hathaway says.

"And is there anything else, anything at all that-"

"Evening, gents," says a briskly cheery voice. The voice belongs to Harry, the publican. Harry's been a fixture here since approximately the dawn of time. He must be getting on now, but he still looks exactly the same as the first time Hathaway encountered him. He probably still looks exactly the same as the first time _Lewis_ encountered him. Harry's head is as bald and shiny as an egg, set off by a neat grey moustache, and he has an eagle eye for detail.

He spots a detail now, frowning disapprovingly at Lewis's glass. "I do apologise for the state of that stout, Inspector. Must have been the end of the barrel. Let me replace it for you."

"Thanks, Harry," Lewis says as Harry scoops up the glass and hurries away. He doesn't say anything more, but there's a gleam of triumph in his eye.

Hathaway lets it go. He lowers his voice. "Do you mind telling me what, exactly, we're looking for here?"

"Nothing in particular. Just whatever we find."

"And if we find nothing?"

"If we find nothing, then we're just two colleagues out for a drink after work."

"If you say so, sir," Hathaway says.

Harry returns several minutes later, bearing a glass of Guinness with a much reduced head.

Lewis takes a sip and smiles. "Perfect, Harry. Thanks," he says.

"Oh, while I remember!" Harry exclaims, turning to Hathaway. "Did your friend manage to catch you last night, Jim?"

Hathaway blinks. "My friend?"

"Or maybe she was your friend's friend? That gentleman who was in here with you last night?"

"I didn't know you were working last night, Harry," Lewis says.

"I wasn't. But Young Harry was."

"I didn't see him," Hathaway says, frowning.

"He wasn't at the bar. He was in and out for a while, sorting out a problem with the most recent consignment. He saw you and your friend leave, and a few minutes later, he ran into her and she asked after the both of you."

"Who exactly are we talking about?" Hathaway asks.

"Your friend's lady friend. She was also a friend of yours, Jim. Or so I understood."

Hathaway and Lewis share a look.

"Do you think we could have a word with Young Harry, Harry?" Lewis asks.

"He's out the back. Let me go and find him for you, Inspector."

"Thank you," Hathaway says.

"No trouble at all, Jim." Harry hurries off again.

"Why does he always do that?" Hathaway wonders out loud.

"Do what?"

"He calls you 'Inspector', but I'm always 'Jim'."

"Maybe he likes you?" Lewis suggests.

Hathaway just looks at Lewis for a long moment.

"Well, you're a very likeable fellow," Lewis continues. "I think so, anyway. And I believe that the young lady at the bar also thinks you're quite pleasant to look at." Lewis nods over Hathaway's shoulder in the direction of the bar.

"Sir," Hathaway says, feeling supremely uncomfortable.

"All right, all right. I know we don't do… that," Lewis says, his tone going much more serious. He sighs. "So, Matthew had a lady friend. You didn't mention her."

"This is the first I've heard of her. I doubt she was really that. Not in the way that Harry implied, anyway. Matthew didn't swing both ways. At least, not so far as I know."

Lewis has been looking down at his beer, but at this he looks up again. "You're not sure?"

"Matthew… didn't share a lot. With anyone. Each person he knew occupied a specific place in his life. He preferred that there wasn't much in the way of overlap."

Lewis looks… well, he looks like Robbie for a moment. He reaches out and pats Hathaway's hand, lets his fingers rest there for a moment—which is a moment too long for such a public place—and then he moves his hand away and he's Lewis again.

"Are you positive that Matthew didn't mention a woman, any woman?" Lewis asks.

Hathaway's about to respond in the negative, when he realises that that's not correct. "He did mention… Matthew received a phone call maybe twenty minutes before we left here. He wasn't happy about it. It was from his boss, Lydia… something."

"So you think she could have shown up here not long after?"

"It's a possibility. Matthew mentioned work very briefly in the course of our conversation. There was something going on that he wasn't happy about, though he didn't say what it was. It may well have had something to do with his boss."

"D'you think you could check the company website on that thing?" Lewis points at Hathaway's phone, which is lying on the table. "Maybe we can get a surname and possibly a picture."

"Just give me a moment," Hathaway says, bending his head over the phone. It takes more than a moment, but it's worth the effort of trying to navigate the remarkably clunky website on the small screen. "Bingo. There we go: Lydia French, Head of European Finance Strategy." He magnifies the picture and turns the phone around so that Lewis can see.

"So that's our mystery woman. Well done," Lewis says and raises his glass before taking another sip.

Harry returns with his son in tow a moment later. Young Harry is burly and middle-aged and looks like a good man to have on one's side in a fight.

"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Harry?" Lewis asks.

"I've got nothing to hide," Young Harry says, folding his arms across his chest and looking a tad belligerent.

"No one's accusing you of anything," Hathaway assures him. "We just need to clear up a few details about something, and it appears you might have some information that could assist us."

"All right," Young Harry says, but his arms remain folded.

"This won't take long," Lewis says. "I understand that you saw my sergeant and his friend leave here yesterday, Harry." Lewis nods in Hathaway's direction.

"That's right, I did," Young Harry confirms.

"Would you be able to tell me what time that was?"

Young Harry scratches his jaw, eyes narrowed. He's clearly wondering just why Lewis is asking him the question when Hathaway is sitting right there and could easily answer for himself. But he replies, "It would have been around half six. I left myself not long after."

"But you did stay long enough to talk to the woman who came looking for the sergeant and his friend a little while afterwards." Lewis is using his semi-formal interview voice. It's a great deal more effective than, well, anything in McNaughten's arsenal, in Hathaway's experience.

"Yes, I did."

"Can you tell me exactly what this woman said?"

"She asked if I'd happened to notice what time the sergeant and his friend had left. She said she was a friend of theirs and hoped to meet up with them that evening. She described the sergeant's friend very accurately, including the exact type of car he was driving."

"Could you describe her for me?" Lewis continues, still all casual formality.

Young Harry sticks his hands in his pockets and contemplates the ceiling for a moment before answering. "She wasn't terribly young. Forty-ish, but well presented. Dark skirt and jacket—businesswoman, maybe—quite tall, short brown hair."

"Did she look like this at all?" Hathaway asks, handing Young Harry his phone with the picture of Lydia French filling the entire screen.

"Yes, that's her," Young Harry says at once.

"You're certain?" Lewis asks.

"Yes, I'm certain," Young Harry says firmly.

"Thanks very much, Harry—and Harry," Hathaway says. "You've both been a great help."

"Always happy to assist, Jim," Harry—Old Harry—assures him. "Inspector," he adds.

Young Harry gives them both a curt nod by way of farewell, and then both Harrys move off in the direction of the bar. Hathaway and Lewis are left in silence, but the look they share is very loud indeed.

Lewis sips his glass of perfect Guinness. "So, it looks as though we've got a witness to confirm what time you and Matthew left here."

"Yes, we've got that," Hathaway agrees. "The question is: what happened after Lydia French left here last night and where is she now?"

"That's a very good question," Lewis agrees. "And it's one that Col McNaughten is going to have to find the answer to." And with that he gets out his phone and makes a call. "Hello, Col?" Lewis says. "Robbie Lewis here. I've got some information that I think you'll want to know about."

~*~

McNaughten makes it to the White Horse in record time. He isn't terribly pleased with either Lewis or Hathaway for infringing on his turf, as he sees it, and he makes this clear in no uncertain terms. But there's not a great deal that he can do about it: the White Horse isn't a crime scene and it's one of Lewis's and Hathaway's usual haunts. It's hardly their fault if the barman decides to pass on a message relating directly to one of them, as Hathaway points out. For just an instant, McNaughten looks very much as if he'd like to do Hathaway violence. Instead, he all but cross-examines everyone—Lewis and Hathaway as well as both Harrys, and the barmaid for good measure—with regard to every last detail they know or have discovered about Lydia French.

Once he's finished with them, McNaughten pointedly suggests that Hathaway and Lewis depart. Lewis elects to finish his Guinness first, which results in a series of fulminating looks being sent their way from the corner in which McNaughten is sitting, and Lewis, in turn, blithely ignoring every single look as he takes his time over his beer. McNaughten doesn't bid them good night when at last Hathaway and Lewis get up to leave.

Lewis's phone rings as Hathaway's pulling out of the parking space.

"Oh, hello, pet," Lewis says with obvious pleasure. It's Lyn. Lewis listens for a moment and then replies, "Nothing much. The usual sort of thing. What are you up to this week?"

Hathaway concentrates on driving.

They're almost home when Lewis says good night and returns the phone to his pocket. Hathaway brakes as he makes a right hand turn into a narrow street. There are cars parked on both sides of the road, a few of them even facing the right way, and navigating the strip down the middle requires all of his concentration until he hits the intersection at the end of the street and turns left onto Iffley Road.

"Do you think he's likely to track her down?" he asks quietly as he accelerates to make it through a set of traffic lights before they turn red.

Lewis doesn't pretend not to understand who he's talking about. "Maybe," he says. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"That's the hard part," James says.

"I know." And James can't tell if it's Inspector Lewis talking, or Robbie.

As soon as they walk in through the door, James grabs a beer from the fridge and holds a second one out to Robbie.

"No, not for me. I've had enough for one evening," Robbie says, shaking his head. "I think I'll have a shower if that's all right."

He's just being courteous, of course, but somehow the phrasing of that sentence grates on James. It's as though Robbie is just another house guest. Not that James has ever had many of those.

James shrugs. "Of course."

"All right, then," Robbie says, but his eyes say something different. He reaches out, and grips James's shoulder. After a moment, his hand slips down further, stroking up and down James's arm a couple of times, his eyes never leaving James's face. James doesn't say anything, and finally Robbie squeezes his arm once, briefly, turns, and walks away.

James throws himself down on the sofa and drinks his beer. He feels... wrong. He's sat here by himself in the evenings more times than he can count, often with a beer or a glass of wine; sometimes not. He almost always has something to do, whether it's something relaxing like reading or listening to music or watching television, or something that requires more in the way of concentration, like practising his guitar or—all too often—doing extra work on an investigation. There's no chance of any investigation work tonight, of course. He eyes his guitar, lurking in its corner. For once, he doesn't feel the pull of it, the compulsion to take it up and immerse himself in music until he's beyond the world of thought. Not that he doesn't _need_ that right now. He just...

The problem is that lately he hasn't spent any evenings by himself. Hasn't had to, and hasn't wanted to. He's become used to that. Very used to that.

He's halfway to the bathroom before he's aware that that's what he's doing. He strips quickly and opens the bathroom door. The bathroom is long and narrow, and so is the shower recess. It doesn't have a door but just a side screen that tapers away, like something out of an hotel.

Robbie hasn't failed to notice James's arrival; he's watching him from the other side of the glass. It's the first time that James can remember Robbie appearing completely unselfconscious in the presence of nakedness, his own included. He looks away quickly as James gets into the shower. All right, maybe he's not completely unselfconscious. Yet.

James slides in between Robbie and the wall, presses himself up against Robbie's back, and wraps his arms around Robbie from behind. He leans his cheek against Robbie's head, feeling as though he's finally discovered a secure mooring after a day of drifting helplessly at the mercy of a fearsome current. " _It is not the sea that sinks and shelves/ But ourselves_ ," he whispers against Robbie's hair and lets out a deep, shuddering breath.

Robbie doesn't ask, " _And what's that supposed to mean when it's at home?_ " or any of the other comments he keeps in readiness for those times when he thinks James is being too clever by half. Instead, he just leans back against James, steady, always steady, pushing him back against the wall so that he has no choice but to hang on tight.

"Thank you," James whispers, though he doesn't know exactly what he's thanking Robbie for. Being here, now, and being who he is. Everything. The water beats down on them, plastering hair against skin and running down between them in warm rivulets. "Thank you," James says again, mouthing the words against wet skin, reverently, like a benediction. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He feels relief when Robbie turns around and kisses him, kisses him hard, all the while keeping him pinned back against the wall. There's no room for any more words, no room for the thoughts that want to crowd in and take over. There's just sensation, closeness, and an emotion so strong that it's like a physical pleasure in and of itself.

Robbie's hand slips down between them, slick from the water. He's hard, they both are, right on the edge already and they've only just begun. It's like riding a wave, _being_ a wave, arching and cresting and breaking. It rips through him and James cries out, shuddering and shuddering until finally Robbie tenses against him, his teeth a bright flash of pain at James's shoulder. When at last it's over James slumps back against the wall, and Robbie slumps too, breathing hard, but he still holds James close, and carefully, in the circle of his arms.

~*~

They're both quiet over breakfast the next morning. Not that there's anything unusual in that, apart from the fact that the breakfast in question is occurring at James's place instead of at Robbie's, but… There's a tentative quality to the silence between them this morning. Something happened last night. They crossed a line. It may have been a line that needed to be crossed, and yet it's left James feeling a trifle unsure: where, exactly, do they go from here? Robbie hasn't said anything much about anything, but James thinks that he's feeling it, too. They keep sneaking glances at each other and then looking hastily away, all uncertainty like kids experiencing their first big crush.

James has had enough of it by the time he's dressed. He goes into the bathroom, where he finds Robbie putting the finishing touches on his tie in front of the mirror.

"What? Is my tie crooked or something?" Robbie asks, after James just stops in the doorway and stares at him.

There's a long pause. James has no idea what he wants to say. "I suppose we'd better leave for work," he says at last.

"I suppose so." Robbie looks at James searchingly for a moment. And then, when James says nothing more, he pulls his tie completely loose and starts knotting it again from the beginning.

They're quiet in the car on the way to work. Lewis almost says something, a couple of times, but when Hathaway asks him what he was intending to say Lewis just replies that it's nothing.

The office is quiet when they get in. Most of the other detectives are nowhere to be seen, including McNaughten and Rhys. Hathaway tries not to think about where they might be and what they might be doing. Innocent swoops down on them virtually the moment they arrive, and spirits Lewis off somewhere. And then Hathaway is alone.

There isn't much for him to do today. He hasn't quite been removed from active duty, but he's sure that Innocent isn't going to send anything new their way until the investigation into Matthew's death has moved on from Hathaway completely. Finding Lydia French would probably do it.

The monthly report could probably do with another re-write. Hathaway opens the file, but he doesn't get very far with it. He keeps checking the clock every few minutes, just like yesterday. And nothing like yesterday. None of the missing detectives returns.

Doctor Hobson pops in for a quick visit at 11:17.

"Good morning, Hathaway," she says. She looks not exactly cheerful, but she has that slight air of morbid self-satisfaction about her that pathologists tend to assume when a body's recently been giving up its secrets to them.

"Good morning, Doctor," Hathaway says.

"Lewis not around?" she asks, her gaze lingering on Lewis's empty desk.

"He's in some sort of meeting. Not sure when he'll be back."

"Ah," she says. "Well, it was mainly you that I wanted to talk to, in any case." She comes over and perches on the edge of his desk.

"Good news?" Hathaway asks, though he knows that 'good' is one thing it won't be, if it's anything to do with Matthew.

"Not good, precisely," she says, and there's a tinge of sympathy to her smile now, "but positive, certainly. Matthew Enright's body was in the water for no more than twelve hours, possibly considerably less than that."

"So that would have been-"

"In the early hours of yesterday morning, at the earliest, yes. But he didn't drown. There's no sign of water in the lungs, or any of the secondary signs I'd expect to see if he was held down and tried to struggle."

Hathaway fiercely contemplates his keyboard as she gets to the end of that sentence.

"I'm sorry," Doctor Hobson says. "Are you sure you want to hear all this?"

"Yes," Hathaway says firmly.

"He didn't die in the water," she continues, "But the knife wound to his side didn't kill him either."

Hathaway looks up at that.

"The cause of death was a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument of some kind."

"So what was the knife wound all about?" Hathaway asks after a moment's pause.

"A botched first attempt, maybe? Someone clearly wanted him dead, but I doubt that they'd thought it through much in advance—but of course working out that part of it is your job, not mine. Well, usually."

Hathaway nods, not trusting himself to say anything in reply to that.

"In any case, he died late that night, hours after you last saw him, so that leaves you completely off the hook. Even Inspector McNaughten will have to agree about that."

Hathaway looks at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Working around here, I can't help but hear things sometimes." She pats him on the shoulder and gets up. "I know Matthew Enright was your friend and you want to be the one to find his killer, but since it can't be you and Lewis on the case, McNaughten is a good choice. He'll find the clues if they're there to be found."

"I hope so," Hathaway says in a low voice.

"I know so." Doctor Hobson glances back over at Lewis's desk. "I'd better get going. When Robbie eventually turns up, will you let him know that I was looking for him? I've got a couple of tickets for a concert next week."

"Of course," says Hathaway.

It's a relief to get back to the monthly report.

It's almost one o'clock when Lewis finally reappears. "Get your jacket," he says. "We're going to the pub."

Hathaway doesn't need to be told twice.

"They've found Lydia French," Lewis says without preamble as soon as the car doors close behind them.

"Alive?"

"Very much so. And she's confessed to killing Matthew Enright."

Hathaway closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the head rest. Lewis doesn't say anything, _knows_ not to say anything right now.

Hathaway opens his eyes again. "Did she say why she did it?"

"From what McNaughten and Rhys have been able to get out of her, she seems to have been pursuing him romantically."

Hathaway winces. He can just imagine how Matthew would have responded to that.

"Exactly," Lewis says. "He wasn't interested; she didn't want to take no for an answer. She followed him up to Oxford, tracked him down at the White Horse with you and then, later…"

"She saw him with someone else?" Hathaway guesses, though it's barely a guess at all for anyone versed in the ways of Matthew.

"'His latest conquest' was how she put it, apparently."

"That sounds like Matthew," Hathaway says and smiles sadly.

"Well, unfortunately, it was also the straw that broke the camel's back, the camel in this case being Lydia French. It was a classic case of workplace sexual harassment, until suddenly it wasn't. Something about seeing Matthew with 'the conquest' made her snap - McNaughten is still digging through her background to try to work out exactly what - and Matthew Enright paid the price. They're bringing in a psychiatrist to assess her." Lewis sighs.

"Maybe they could use her as a case study in that DVD we saw yesterday," Hathaway says with a derisory snort at the memory of it.

Lewis goes silent then, for long enough that Hathaway looks over at him to see if anything's the matter. Lewis is frowning. He looks more than usually serious.

"What is it?" Hathaway asks.

"Well, don't you think that you and I, well." Lewis comes to a stuttering halt.

"Not one of the more coherent sentences you've ever uttered, sir," Hathaway notes, but he's starting to feel real concern.

"Don't you think that someone looking at us from the outside might think that _we_ could be used as a textbook case of sexual harassment in the workplace, too?"

Hathaway looks at him incredulously. "Um, no?" he ventures.

Lewis huffs an almost-laugh and looks a tiny bit shame-faced. "All right, maybe not. I just… I'm your boss. And I'm a lot older than you. And we don't… Well."

"We don't what?"

"Harry isn't the only one who calls me 'Inspector' whenever we're in the White Horse." Lewis isn't laughing any more.

"That's not true," Hathaway objects. "I call you 'sir' as well." He says the words lightly enough, but inside he's cringing. Compartmentalising: that's what Lewis is talking about.

James isn't Matthew, he never wants to be Matthew, but he has more in common with Matthew than he's wanted to see. He's been aware of what he's been doing, almost. He's glimpsed it in his peripheral vision a few times, and then refused to call it by its right name or do anything about it. It's been easy to dismiss it. Convenient. But now Lewis is calling him on it, and he doesn't look happy about it.

James has to fix it.

He leans over and takes Lewis's face in his hands, and kisses Lewis right there in the car, in the police station car park, in broad daylight. It's awkward. The gear stick and steering wheel both get in the way, and Lewis has already done up his seatbelt so he can't really move.

Lewis unbuckles his seatbelt and meets James halfway, and then it's the best, most liberating kiss of James's life.

"I don't want to hide any more, Robbie," James says, when at last the sheer unwieldiness of the position forces them to break apart.

"What brought this on?" Lewis wants to know. He's regarding James a trifle warily, and James can't really blame him for that.

"Matthew. Everything. I won't…" Now James is the one having trouble expressing himself. That may just be a first. "We need to be discreet, but not secret. Not any more."

"If you keep kissing me in public this close to the police station, we won't be either for very much longer," Lewis points out with some asperity.

James ignores this very valid observation for the moment. "I don't want to hide," he says again. He shakes his head in frustration, groping for the right words. The words are there, he can feel them hovering, tantalisingly just out of his reach, but they dance away when he tries to capture them. All he has left is the most basic of language, plain and unadorned. Honest. "It's because of Matthew, partly, but mostly it's because of you. I love you. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Of course not," Lewis says gruffly, but he looks away, looks right out the window, in fact.

"What?" James asks quickly. Uncertainly.

"Nothing." Lewis turns his head away from the window and James is startled to see that his eyes are glistening.

Lewis's phone rings, the sound cutting through the moment. Their eyes meet. "I've got to get that," Lewis says.

"I know." James studies the dash as Lewis fishes the phone out of his pocket.

"Lewis." He listens for a moment and then says, "Yes, I know exactly where that is. We'll be right there." He pockets his phone again. "We need to go," he tells James.

"A case?" he asks. It's what he's been waiting for for the last two days. Right up until five minutes ago.

"Jane Wilson. It turns out she wasn't the female body in the river after all. They've just found her at the top of Tom Tower."

"Dead?" James asks.

"Most definitely."

"So the pub is going to have to wait." Amongst other things.

"Yes, but not for too long," Lewis says. He reaches out and puts his hand on James's knee. It feels heavy and warm. Substantial. He clears his throat. "You mean everything to me, much more than the job. Just so there can't be any doubt."

James wants to kiss Lewis, he wants that very badly, but that's going to have to wait, too. Lewis is already moving his hand away and starting up the engine. James reaches out and puts his hand on Lewis's knee.

Lewis pauses in the act of putting the car into reverse, looks down at James's hand. He covers it with his own for a second and squeezes, and then looks back up at James. "Later," he says, and resumes backing the car out of the space, but he's smiling as he does so.

He's right. There's no time right now, but there will be. Later. As much time as they need. As much time as they want. Time to sort things out properly, to stop hiding from Lyn, and from Laura Hobson, and maybe even from Innocent. Time to stop hiding from each other.

Right now, though, work needs to take centre stage, and James Hathaway is fine with that. More than fine.

It's about time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hathaway's favoured poets in this story are Shakespeare and Longfellow.


End file.
